There and Back Again and Again and Again
by NoClueKid
Summary: More than just a wishful-thinking AU in which everyone survives the Battle of Five Armies (although it is that)! Bilbo has returned to the Shire and is trying valiantly to believe he is content there, pouring his heart into caring for his adopted nephew. Meanwhile, Thorin must rebuild a kingdom, leading his scattered people back to the Erebor. Their paths cross once again.
1. Chapter 1

(A/N: Holy wow, I never thought I'd see the day I'd attempt to write a somewhat earnest fanfiction in the Tolkienverse. Either I've gotten really good or really arrogant. I'll have to say a dozen whatever-the-nerd-version-of-the-Hail-Mary is. I blame Richard Armitage. Dirty tramp, making me like the movie version of anything better than the book version! Admittedly, it's been a long time since I've read the Silmarillion, so pardon me if there are any glaring inaccuracies. I do recall that one of the Silmarils fell into a great chasm in the earth and was lost. Then, ages later, the Dwarves find this amazing gem deep underground. Coincidence? Probably, but I'll still build a premise around it.)

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Every moment was a shard of glass he must swallow and endure. Bilbo wanted to lie down among the dead, drown in a putrid mire of cooling blood. It was less grief and more the wild terror of falling, knowing only fear and that the end must swiftly come, a shattering impact upon reality, and the broken, jagged pieces of everything that had mattered.

Yet even that pain was devoured by something greater. What was the emptiness of his life, to the emptiness of the half-broken throne, bereft of both Arkenstone and king? Never would the mountain see the line of Durin return. He felt the deep emptiness of Erebor in his heart as he imagined Thorin once had. The heaviness of tragedy beyond the hope of comfort or repair. The knowledge that Thorin had lived with that pain, had died in it. Neither he, nor Bilbo, nor the mountain itself would see the dawn of a new glad day, though a hundred thousands suns should rise and fall.

Death was a blank stone wall. There was no map, no key, no hidden door. No magic. Just this. Thorin lay in his tomb. They would hold his funeral tomorrow. No one was allowed in until then.

-No one who did not have a ring which could make one invisible, that is.

Bilbo had told himself that Thorin would not care, that he would understand no disrespect was meant. As he looked upon Thorin's face, however, it was difficult not to think that he was beyond understanding Bilbo's intentions, or caring whether or not he did. The dead King Under the Mountain lay adorned in the finery befitting his station. To Bilbo, the beauty was a mockery, a tasteless jest. There was no beauty in this fate, this ending. Worst of all was the Arkenstone, which had been set upon Thorin's chest, in the wilting grip of dead fingers.

"I think I understand you, finally." Bilbo touched Thorin's hand, but recoiled at how cold it was. "I always wondered how you could be so brave. But I don't think that was it at all. You _were _brave, that's true, but I think you were also just…just sad. You couldn't abide the way things were and if you couldn't die to make things right than you would all too gladly die trying."

With more determination, he laid his hand on Thorin's, for all that it was as cold and lifeless as stone.

"I'd take a dragon over this any day. An army of dragons. The enemy of enemies himself. But death? Damn it all, Thorin…tell me what to do."

Thorin said nothing, because there was no Thorin any more.

"Confound your stubbornness!" Bilbo snapped. He snatched the Arkenstone off Thorin's chest, not out of desire or longing but in pure, hot rage.

"There, I stole your precious bloody rock again!" He waived it in the air. "Serves you right for being dead you insufferable oaf! It isn't right for it to be here, after all the harm it's caused – can't you see that?" He hurled the stone ineffectually, to bounce off lesser treasures and come to rest in a dark corner.

"It ought to be smashed into a thousand pieces, or dropped into the deepest sea." Bilbo sank forward, laying his head upon a broken chest where no heartbeat stirred. "It was never worth your life…"

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In the aftermath of battle, it is safe to say that Gandalf was busy enough. He had but paused upon an outer stairwell of the mountain, to smoke his pipe and clear his head. When, out of nowhere, Bilbo's voice asked him,

"You know the story of Beren and Luthian?"

"Have you completely lost your mind?" Gandalf snapped, turning to face Bilbo who had, assumedly, come up very quietly from behind him.

"Yes." Said Bilbo.

"Well." Said Gandalf. He took another puff of smoke before continuing. "Now that we've established that, what are you planning to do? The god of fate and death is not easily swayed to pity." Another breath and puff of smoke. "You're a charming fellow, but no Luthian."

"No, I haven't her voice or her beauty or even her wisdom. But I do have one thing she did not." Bilbo drew the Arkenstone from his pocket.

Gandalf gazed long at the gem, then at Bilbo. "And you believe a Valar would take an interest in that bauble?"

"I know of at least one who did."

"Very clever." Gandalf looked as though he was trying very hard, beneath his stern front, not to grin. "If you insist on risking your life for Thorin once more, I can put your feet upon the path that may lead you to him, and _may _even lead you back. I would warn you that the chances are slim and slimmer, but I know you would not listen."

"Then you are indeed wise."

"The doorway into death is never far from any mortal." Breath of the pipe, puff of smoke. "Close your eyes." Pull, puff. "Now open them again."

Bilbo did so, to find that he was looking back at…himself. Even as he watched, amazed, he saw his vacant body sink, slowly, into Gandalf's waiting arms. Gandalf lowered Bilbo's body gently to a reclining position. His eyes were looking at Bilbo's closed eyes, but his words were for the part of Bilbo that was still wide awake.

"I'll keep this safe for you, although that is the least of your concerns. Now go."

There was a door, and Bilbo went through it.

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It was _cold_. Cold as world's end, when all heat and life have perished. His very soul seemed frozen. Remembering life, he found he yet had legs with which to stand, and stood he did upon a path. More than that it was difficult to say. Just as his soul remembered its shape, so also it remembered sight, and thus the world of death appeared to him as such. Yet being all places, it was in a sense no place at all, always indistinct and shifting. A mirage retreating as quickly as a thought could pursue.

Behind him was the way back to life, and he waivered a moment in fear and doubt. Truly, he realized, the living never knew how sweet life was, for they knew not the alternative. He imagined himself alive once more, weeping for Thorin and Fili and Kili who were not. Yet even the heat of those bitter tears was worlds better than this…

No. He gathered his resolve about him. If this was death, all the more reason he could not abandon them here. No. He had braved dragonfire, so he would brave the cold of death as well. He would seek Thorin as Thorin had sought the Arkenstone, beyond the death of hope.

He followed the path, and the path was long. Always visible and never branching, nonetheless it was at times almost impossible to follow; more like the dream of a tortured path than a path itself. Now too narrow, now too steep, now a crumbling, wafer-thin bridge across fathomless black abyss.

What harm could come to he of body, in a world without form? There were no fingers to freeze, no skin to scrape raw, no hot mortal blood to spill. Yet as he traveled, color itself bled from him. Across the fathomless distance, through time outside of time, all shape and form wore away. He was hollow and inchoate as the lands through which he traveled.

Other such dwindled creatures haunted the path. He never saw them clearly, only the motion of something barely-there, amid forests of thorny black-bowed trees or rocky wastes of jagged gray. Their spoke in voiceless whispers, and their eyes glowed with a pale, dead light.

Were they hunting him? Or were they merely lost, as he was slowly becoming? Would he lose himself and lose his way, fade to a half-shadow haunting the path between life and what followed, unwilling to go back and unable to go on?

He came at last to a castle, crumbling and crooked as the most derelict hovel, and yet so vast it put even the Lonely Mountain to shame. Its doors were ajar, so colossal that passing through them was like falling into the sea.

Inside there was a throne room. Its ceiling was taller than sight, and the floor was like a chessboard. Or, at least, something more akin to that than anything else Bilbo had ever seen. Some figures represented people, others armies or forces, storms and seasons. The past was represented there, and the future implied.

He realized he was looking upon the Dwarvish race. As it was now, as it had been, and as it would or could be. They had won a battle, but in the greater scheme of fate lost a war. They would decline. The hour would come, in a year or an age, when they would face a final test, to either endure or fade from memory. The longer he looked, the more clear it became, and he might have never looked away had a voice not spoken,

"Your name is Bilbo Baggins, and you've come to argue with death for Durin's soul."

The speaker sat upon a high throne. Mandos, the god of death and fate. He was as cold and grey and pitiless as his realm.

"…Yes." Bilbo said. "Wait – no." He had forgotten that, his name and purpose. But he remembered now. He knew himself again, like the lighting of a small defiant candle in a cold grey fog. "Not Durin's soul. Thorin's."

"One and the same." Said the god of the dead, sounding profoundly bored. "There's a precedent for reincarnation – or has the world forgotten?"

"I thought it was just a strong patrilineal resemblance."

"No." Mandos stood, descending from his throne to move amid the game pieces. As he moved among them, they changed. "Whenever that race faces a pivotal hour, the soul of the same king is born to guide them. Not," he added, "that I mind if people attribute Durin's deathlessness to mere genetics. My job is difficult enough without troublemakers clamoring upon my doorstep, demanding an exception to the rules. As things stand now, I need only send him back once more, when he will either preserve what remains of his people, or die from the world forever with them."

_He cares not if the entire world should perish. _Bilbo realized. _So much less for him to oversee and manage. _

It was only a thought, but in that place it was as plain as any words. Mandos glowered at Bilbo, reminding the Hobbit very much of Gandalf for a moment.

"Go on then." Mandos said. "Tell me why your love is so much better and more deserving than everyone else's." He raised an impatient hand, gesturing at the game bored – at the world in its entirety; past, present and future.

"Even if I believed that was true, I wouldn't try and convince you of it." Said Bilbo. "I am a Hobbit, and we are entirely more practical." He removed the Arkenstone from his pocket. "I offer you this, in exchange for his soul, as well as Fili and Kili's."

"One jewel for one soul." Mandos said.

"Nonsense." Said Bilbo. "If what you said is true, you've sent him back several times already for nothing at all."

"Yes, but with mind and body still intact? That's entirely a different matter."

"That's fine print." Bilbo objected. "In the scheme of things a minor detail."

"…For the sake of argument, suppose it is." Said Mandos after a moment. "Which second soul will you take? Even if I give you two, I promise I shall not give three."

Bilbo was silent. How cruel, to take one and leave the other. But how pointless, to save neither when he might save one.

"I wonder," Mandos said, as Bilbo considered, "that you would part with such a prize at all, for any bond of affection. All life must end, but the beauty of that stone is undying."

"Its beauty is quite wasted on me, after all the ill it's caused." Bilbo said. "I would cast it into the deepest void of death, for all the joy I take in looking at it. But I shall not, if with it I can save even one of my fiends."

"Indeed." Said Mandos. "But there is another treasure you carry, which I dare say still holds some charm for you. What of the Ring, Bilbo Baggins?"

Bilbo could only gape at him.

"What could you want with that?" He managed at last. He could scarcely imagine this grim, grey tower of a being needing the power of invisibility – or if he did, needing the aid of a ring to gain it.

"That is the concern of fate," Mandos said. "Although I shall tell you that it was made by one who is closer to my own kind than yours. It has a destiny in your world, but for the time being it is not out of place in this one."

Bilbo drew out the ring and considered. He was shocked, not merely that Mandos wanted the ring, but that he was not willing to give it up at once. Even for the sake of Fili or Kili's life…

_What will you be without me? _The ring whispered to him. _All you were to them, you were because of me. If you leave me here, you will be nothing. _

"So be it!" He flung the ring at Mandos's feet. "I was prepared to give my life. I will of course give this."

Mandos did not even glace at the ring as it rolled and came to rest upon the floor. His colorless eyes were impassive; empty.

"It is not enough."

"My foot it's not!" Bilbo shouted, not caring that it was at the awful creature who oversaw life and death like a chess game. He was prepared to give Mandos as good a scolding as a misbehaving Hobbit child. "Now see here," Bilbo began, "you all but said that you would give me those three for the ring and the stone. I don't know about your kind, but mine care about honor, and the keeping of one's word."

"It is not a question of my honor." If Bilbo did not know better, he would think that Mandos sounded almost…amused. "For it is not a matter of my will." Mandos gestured at the board. "I oversee fate, that is true, and I can take actions which affect its course – as can you, as can any creature however great or small. But I am not fate's master. That is the glory of a higher God that I."

As if to illustrate his point, the pieces upon the board shifted, showing at once how things stood and how things might stand, if Bilbo were to have his way. There was a strange asymmetry, an intangible but pervasive awareness things were out of place. The more he tried to figure out what it was, the more elusive it became.

With his increased focus, the configuration of the board altered as well, expanded to fill his perception. He found himself standing as the smallest of pawns amid the game. Before him stood Thorin, or that which represented him; a figure carved as through from the essence of stone. Bilbo felt humbled before it, smaller than he had ever been.

"There are limits to what I can and cannot change," Mandos said, "just as there are limits to what you can and cannot change."

"There must be a way." Bilbo said, in defiance of fate and God. "Take my soul. A life for a life."

"It is not a matter of life so much as possibility – that which life might lead to." Mandos towered above both of them, more vast than the sky. There was a beat of hesitation. Could the god of fate experience doubt? "If you will, I shall trade you one _possibility _for another."

The board shifted; fate unfolded as it should. There was no more irregularity. And now…there was a second piece standing behind Thorin, positioned in such a way that Bilbo could only glimpse it. He could not tell if it was meant to be a person, or something entirely more elusive. A storm, a sickness, a missing piece of something else. Whatever it was, he could tell it was evil.

"A curse." Mandos said in response to Bilbo's unspoken question. "It might reclaim all your lives and turn your joy to sorrow. Or it may not. It is one possibility for another, the end of which is beyond my power to control or foresee. The choice is yours."

Choice.

Bilbo lay a trembling hand on Thorin, or Durin, or neither – both and more. The lines of his face were familiar, but sharper and more austere than ever they had been in life. His eyes were lost in the deep shadow of his brow. The soul of a king in fate. It was like touching the soul of a mountain; beyond indelible, harder than diamond. It all but hurt to touch.

_Did you know, even as you held your treasure in your hands, that it brought with it a curse? Would you tell me not to make the same mistake you did? _

There was no answer, nor comfort from the soul of stone. If this was Thorin he was far beyond Bilbo to reach with a touch, a simple yearning however profound. The choice stood between them now. A choice which might be nothing, or utter ruin.

And yet there was no choice at all. Bilbo knew nothing of fate, of curses and trades. All he knew is that he would give anything to have Thorin look at him, to say a single word even if it were to call Bilbo a fool.

"So be it." Bilbo said. He let the Arkenstone fall from his other hand, but before it could hit the floor its course was altered, drifting like a boat in a stream to the outstretched hand of fate. Mandos did not retrieve the ring, however. Rather, the game board shifted around it, drawing it into fate and out of sight for the moment. Bilbo understood that Mandos had never wanted it for himself, but some other design at which the Hobbit could not guess. Even as he watched the board was moving again, but it faded from his sight as it did so. In the blink of an eye Thorin was gone, and Bilbo stood alone before Mandos.

"Return to your world." Mandos said it, and it was so.

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Bilbo was gasping, shivering, clutching in shock and fear at Gandalf, who was kneeling; bending over him.

"Gandalf, oh, Gandalf –" Bilbo's head was pounding as though all of creation had been forced inside his skull. His ears were ringing, vision swimming. He was certain that ice crystals had formed in his blood. There was something…something, beyond the pain, beyond the disorientation, that he knew was vital. Something important, some piece of knowledge not to be mislaid. Most urgent…

What?

"What was it…?" Bilbo whispered.

"It was the world of the dead," Said Gandalf, "of which the living are meant to know little. You will remember only glimpses."

"You're right." Said Bilbo, deeply perplexed. "I hardly remember anything at all…" He took in a sharp breath. "Did it work? Oh, gods, is Thorin –?"

"I will make haste to see, but Bilbo." Gandalf looked at him intently. "Even if he does return, it is possible he will not remember anything at all. If that is the case, it is best if this last adventure – perhaps your grandest, even – stays between the two of us."

"That's fine, I don't care." Bilbo said, waiving a hand impatiently. "Go on, go!" He watched Gandalf disappear behind the corner, too exhausted even to savor the fact that, for once, he was bossing the wizard around. Instead, he collapsed then and there upon the steps, and it was a quarter of an hour before someone found him – having fallen and hit his head, they presumed – and carried him off to be tended.

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They took to calling him Thorin the Deathless, which made Bilbo extremely but secretly uncomfortable. The official story was of a swift, miraculous recovery when all hope had appeared lost. Even if that was the truth, Bilbo supposed, people would invent a more colorful version. It was Bilbo's own bad luck that in this case, the stranger tale was the truer.

Bilbo was not quite certain anymore if Thorin's soul was in fact the same as Durin's, or if the gossip had put the notion in his head after the fact. When he strained his mind, there seemed to be a hazy recollection, the aftertaste of memory. It filled him with a sense of dread, however, when he tried to recall the details of his latest, strangest adventure, so he did his best to put the notion from his mind. Gandalf had said that the world of the dead was not for mortals to know of, and he whole-heartedly agreed.

If he was fully honest with himself, Bilbo did not like Thorin as a mythical, deathless king of old. But as the days past, that was ever more what Thorin became. The duties of his station swallowed him, and Bilbo saw him infrequently, always in the company of others and usually at a distance. On the road in a company of thirteen, Bilbo had often wished that they could have had an occasional moment alone. Yet the journey was downright private in retrospect, when the entirety of a kingdom stood between them.

When he did see Thorin up close, he still appeared half-dead, with ashen pallor and wounds still raw on his face and hands. Bilbo wanted to tell him to rest, but found himself always at a loss for words. He felt that Thorin was almost a stranger now, far beyond Bilbo's feelings of concern. Among various other feelings.

It was as Gandalf said – he was no Luthian. It was King and Queen, not king and burglar. So Bilbo took his leave of the king with the soul of stone, waived farewell to the Lonely Mountain and turned his own face homeward. It was a long journey, and if ever the thought of regret or turning back crossed his mind, he showed it swiftly out again. He would think of safe things now, good things. His home. His hearth. His armchair. Determined that they would be now, as they were before, enough.

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(A/N: If you think the Ring just falling out of this story is too convenient, you're quite right. *Maniacal laughter* Thanks for reading!)


	2. Chapter 2

(A/N: So, BoFA was so filled with Thilbo beautiful moments, I couldn't help but be led into another story about them. I apologize if formatting is odd; trying to convey speech, and thought, and writing is a bit tricky with 's format and font options - or lack thereof. I'm not sure where Painting the Goat stands. I have a bit more to add to that one, but I have a feeling this story is going to be my new outlet for this muse.)

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_Spring - _

_/First, the wild crocus gleams/_

_/From the grey winter soil/_

_/The hue of hope/ _

_/Daffodils' brave pointed heads on upright stocks/_

_/Slender leaves like swords/ _

_/An army to vanquish winter's chill/ _

_ /T__ulips a victory parade/ _

_ /Petals, soft as an infant's lips, are as banners of all colors/_

_ /Demure_ _pastel/_

_ /Royal purple, brazen scarlet/ _

_ /Yellow heralds of the summer sun/ _

...Not to mention the red and yellow-striped strain which grew in his own yard. They had been Bilbo's pride in springs past; the talk of the neighborhood. Once, he had even caught a certain relative of his attempting to unearth and make off with the bulbs.

_ That used to be important to me. _Bilbo mused, with a disorientation so acute it was like vertigo. Either the world was tumbling away, or he was, and tulips would not help him. Maybe if he could stop comparing flowers to armies it would be a good first step, but such were his thoughts now. He had returned to his life, but he found he did not fit well therein. For one thing, his clothes were now too large. For another, everything else was now too small. Especially free-verse poems about flowers.

He let his pen fall, and ran a hand across his eyes, aching both from fatigue and squinting so long in the dim candlelight. He did not know where that which he would remember ended, and that which he would forget began. So his nights were often passed in the push-and-pull of bittersweet recollection and not-so-sweet doubt. Insomnia and weariness were becoming second nature.

He rose, wandering into the kitchen for another cup of tea. Tea was a happy thing. He had missed tea, and now had all he could ever want. Yes, tea, and the lack of constant and immediate physical peril, these were two reasons which he was glad to be back and never wished to leave again. That should be plenty.

And yet…there was the subject of those poems he had not cast aside but burned, less for fear that someone else might read them and more fear of the words themselves. They were rather poorly-written, for one thing.

Upon returning to his desk, he crumpled the blathering of daffodils and spring, and tossed it over his shoulder upon a floor littered with many of its fellows.

_ Like the dead upon a battlefield – stop it, stop it, stop it. _

He raised the pen once more, with purpose.

_ I do not wish to build you a shrine of words/  
><em>

_ A tomb for our memory/ _

_ But that which is wordless/ _

_ Beyond language to capture/  
><em>

_ Or decency to describe/_

Another one for the fire. He marred the white face of a new sheet with a dark, angry blot. This was stupidity. What he wanted was impossible. Here, there, or anywhere. If he was honest with himself, that was the real reason he had returned to the Shire. Not tea, not safety, not comfort, but for what these things had always brought him. A life in which love could smother, could be buried and forgotten. It had worked well enough for him before. With the exception of a few bouts of youthful melancholy, he had been happy. Never pining, rarely lonely. Certainly not authoring poems of hopeless, torrid adoration in the small hours of the morning.

Probably why they all turned out so painfully bad…

He gouged more sharp, angry lines into the paper, heedless for once of the waste. He did not want to become a master of poetry burned before it was read. And yet he could do nothing else.

He tried to write a certain name upon the page and could not. He wrote, instead, the closest thing.

_King Under the Mountain/_

All he would remember; all he would he could forget. All he never would.

_ So you are, and so you shall never be/ _

_Not to me. Not merely. _

More words for the fire.

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Upon his return from "There", the Shire's opinion of Mr. Bilbo was divided. The majority opinion was that he had made the whole thing up. Some believed he may have gone somewhere (unsavory) and done something (indecent) with someone (disreputable) that resulted in the acquisition of boundless (unsavory, indecent, and disreputable) fortune. A key few were willing to entertain the tale with credulity, if for no other reason than because it made damn good listening, with a drink in hand around the fire, as most unsavory, indecent, and disreputable things do.

It was difficult to say which of these opinions carried more disapproval. Because whether he was off slaying worms and reclaiming kingdoms, or simply on a prolonged episode of binge drinking with a bunch of rowdy Dwarves he'd encountered in one of Bree's rougher neighborhoods, the Hobbits of Hobbiton agreed that, either way, it was most improper.

It was both better and worse than Bilbo had ever imagined, being looked upon as disrespectable, as something of a taboo. On the one hand, after being nearly eaten by:

Trolls

Goblins

Gollum

Orcs and/or Wargs

And giant spiders (Bilbo wondered if it was normal to have so many people want to literally eat you, or if it was something about him specifically. Maybe it was just as well he had lost so much weight), before being:

Almost drowned

Almost burned alive

Almost dropped off a mountain

And, of course, that Battle of Five Army business

A few disapproving looks just didn't take the toll on him they might once have, and he found himself startlingly apathetic when a number of distant relations neglected to send holiday cards. Still, he wished they would either accept his account of events, or not, and move on. He had not come back to the Shire to live in the shadow all that had befallen him since he ran out the door three years ago without his handkerchief.

Grocery shopping, for instance. It used to be a favorite pastime of his, combing the shops and carts for the choicest wares, smelling herbs and weighing cheese, chatting with vendors, steeping himself in the news and gossip of the day.

Now he _was _the news and gossip, and it made him never want to leave his hole. Yet whatever else had changed about him, he still valued a fresh and ample meal. So, out he went to market, trailing mutters and stares like smoke trails fire.

As he deliberated over blueberries, he heard the baker's son and the herbalist's daughter speaking in quiet voices. Nonetheless, the gist of their conversation was audible and familiar.

"_They say he was always a bit odd, even before he went off on a lark." _The girl was saying.

"_I don't care how odd he is or was." _Said the boy. _"There's no way it's true. Those Dwarf-names, for one thing – I would bet gold to gooseberries he made most if not all of them up. Doily, Noily, Oily, or whatever…" _

Bilbo grit his teeth, offended on his friends' behalf more than his own. _Dori, Nori, and Ori! _He wanted to shout at the impertinent tweens. It would only make matters worse, he knew this, but the knowledge did surprisingly little to quell his ire. He turned and walked away from the cart without buying anything, in what could only be described as a huff.

He had not taken two steps, however, before he heard it. He had never realized, even to that day, that the sound of a troop of ponies had been ingrained so deeply into his heart. The sound of many hooves across hard-packed earth filled him with something pure and poignant as the chime of a silver bell.

_ It couldn't be…_

And yet so it was: a company of thirteen Dwarves, looking as out of place in the Shire as they had that night two years ago. And although Bilbo spent far more time than he cared to confess remembering them, it was as though he had never seen any of them before. The vivid reality of them was a stinging slap in the face of memory's dim rendering.

When he laid eyes upon Thorin, who rode in front, the slap was more like a stab, a blade in his heart. Was this not joy? How could it be so painful?

He was certain for a moment that he would faint. Or die. And in the brief moment before Thorin saw him, Bilbo was seized with the almost unbearable temptation to duck out of sight and run and keel over dead in private. Even if he managed to survive, there was no way he could bare this shock gracefully.

Then Thorin's eyes were on him, and he could not have moved had his life depended on it. Thorin looked for a moment as utterly shocked as Bilbo felt. He reined in his pony and dismounted with an ease Bilbo had never managed to acquire even after months of travel. Even standing on the ground, Bilbo was taken aback by how accursedly tall Thorin was. Had it always been so? Had Bilbo really forgotten?

"Master Baggins." Thorin greeted with an incline of his head, as though they had seen each other last week. "I did not expect to see you here."

"As you might recall, I live here." Bilbo was astounded at the lightness of his voice.

Thorin's mouth quirked in a brief, slight smile. "The market, I meant. The intention was to supply supper rather than ask it this time."

"I would have fed you all again gladly."

"Exactly why it was meant as a surprise. And –" He trailed off as he noticed the young hobbit child standing almost hidden behind Bilbo, one tiny hand gripping the edge of Bilbo's waistcoat.

"Oh, excuse me, where are my manners." Bilbo said, following Thorin's gaze. "Frodo, this is Thorin Okensheild. What do you say?"

The small Hobbit Frodo seemed quite daunted at the notion of saying anything to this dark, looming stranger. But in the manner of a Baggins after Bilbo's own heart, he squared his small shoulders and made a formal bow.

"Frodo Baggins at your service." His voice was high and thin as a reed pipe.

There was a moment of total silence. Thorin's expression was suddenly as closed and fathomless as one of his people's renowned hidden doors. Bilbo was filled with an unease that he could not place or name, and the instant passed before he could be sure it had ever been.

"Thorin Okensheild at yours and your family's." Thorin said, bowing low to Frodo.

A shy smile crept onto Frodo's face, and he stepped more fully from behind Bilbo. "May I touch your beard?"

"Frodo –" Bilbo began, mortified. His mortification increased tenfold when Thorin actually knelt down, yielding his face to the young Hobbit's exploration. Thorin's beard was, in fact, longer now than it had been in the days of their fateful quest, although any facial hair at all was quite novel to Frodo.

Bilbo was entranced with the image of Frodo's pale fingers in the coarse, dark hair, following a braid to its tip and scrutinizing most carefully the silver bead upon its fastening. If first the simple shock of their appearance had staggered him, Bilbo was overwhelmed with a sudden aching tenderness. Also, his own fingers twitched with the sympathetic urge to do as Frodo's did. Any peace of mind or normalcy he had managed to regain abandoned him, and he could have wept for the truth he had tried so long to deny and could no longer.

_ Were I to live a hundred or a thousand years in peace and comfort, what I feel for you could never fade. _

"Looks for all the world like the two of you had a son." Bofur said, having dismounted and come over.

Bilbo wasn't one to blush, but he could feel the heat rise in his face like high summer noon. Another detail which memory did not always supply: Bofur's habit of speaking any thought that entered his head, regardless of propriety.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Fili said, coming to stand beside Bilbo. "Introduce the rest of us then!"

"And make sure you include everyone." Kili said, with a wink at the herbalist's daughter, who had broken off her gossip to stare, open-mouthed, at all of them.

"Weren't you just besotted with an elf?" Muttered Thorin, casting a chilly glance as his younger nephew.

"I always believed they were real." The herbalist's daughter sighed.

.

(A/N: I see Kili as the type who has a new true love every few months or so. The others know not to take it too seriously. Thanks for reading!)


	3. Chapter 3

(A/N: So, I've made a new year's resolution to make writing and other such creative endeavors a higher priority. Yes, being an author is my hobby not my career, but even so I would like to be official published some day. This seems like code for saying I'm going to become a pretensions douche, but it also means more frequent updates, and some art to go along with it. The year is young; we'll see how it goes.)

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Bilbo had not realized how much he had spoken of the Shire while away from it. Until, that is, he had thirteen Dwarves who each wanted to see all of the aforementioned. Everywhere. Immediately. It was less like herding cats and more like being herded by cats. Thirteen cats that can physically carry one wherever they please. A mouse being herded by thirteen cats.

"Is this that bakery you always swore by?" -Dori

"Blimy, I've never seen so many mushrooms." -Bofur

"Where was that old mill you mentioned?" -Gloin

"Is the Green Dragon in this area?" –Dori

"Look at the size of that tuber!" –Bombur

"While we're in here, where might I buy a bushel of turnips?" –Ori

Bilbo did not realize that Fili and Kili wanted a word with him, until they grabbed him one by each arm and pulled him quickly out of sight behind several stacked bales of hay.

"Oof, what do you –"

"We must beg once more for your help." Fili said at once.

"Mostly he must beg once more for your help." Kili added.

"We _both _must, brother dear." Fili said. "Because when I fall, you're next."

"Next what?" Bilbo asked.

"Next king." Both brothers said at once.

"Wait," said Bilbo, very confused, "I thought you wanted to be-"

"Yes." Said Fili quickly. "I do. But not yet."

"He'd also be a sorry king whether he wanted to or not." Put in Kili. Fili put him in a headlock. "Ow, ow, I'm not saying _I'd_ be any better!"

"I have no idea _what_ you're saying." Bilbo said.

"Thorin plans to abdicate." Fili said, letting go his brother and his cheerful manner. "Within the year, as soon as resettlement is well underway, he intends to step down. Maybe a bit longer if something goes really wrong, but…" Fili shook his head, eyes distant. "I am not prepared to be king, and there's no reason why he should not be."

Bilbo just stared for a moment. He could hardly manage a trip to market with Dwarves, and now they wanted him to take a hand in the matter of their royal succession?

"Have…you…told him that?" Bilbo asked.

"He just says he wasn't ready either." Fili said. "That no one is ever ready, etcetera, etcetera. You know how he can get."

"Imagine." Said Kili. "When you're king, you'll have to not roll your eyes when someone important gives you a lecture."

"A fate worse than death." Fili said with a grin, but it was thin and seemed rather forced.

A silence fell over the three of them. Distant voices were audible from the street. Somewhere a pony neighed.

"Is this…serious?" Bilbo asked. It was difficult for him to gauge exactly how much threat Fili and Kili found this new prospect; they who taunted death with a wink and a song. "I mean –" he stammered at the incredulous look he received from both of them, "I do want to help you, but it's all rather above my head. I think Thorin makes a fine king and I think you would too."

Abruptly, Kili stood and walked away.

"Where are you going?" Bilbo made to follow, but Fili grabbed his arm, holding him back.

"Leave him. He's…" Fili trailed off in a non-committal shrug.

"Upset?" Bilbo prompted. "Angry, miffed? Offended? Chagrined? Give me a clue; I'm hopelessly lost with all of this."

"It's difficult to explain. It ought to be our concern and none of yours, and I do apologize." Fili held up one hand to silence Bilbo's stammered denials. "Do you think Thorin should be king?"

Fili's blue eyes, so much warmer and more joyful than his Uncle's, were similar for an instant in their almost preternatural intensity. They pierced straight to the truth, through doubt and insecurity.

"Yes. Yes, of course I do."

"Then please, tell him that." Fili clapped Bilbo on the shoulder. "Then forget we ever dragged you into the thorny world of politics."

"That ship sailed a long time ago, my friend." Laughed Bilbo, suddenly at-ease again. "But I'll do what I can. What kind of burglar would I be if I abandoned you in the hour of need?"

"Aye, that would make you more like a wizard."

They both laughed, although he was interrupted by a commotion from the adjacent street. Apparently Dwalin had caught Nori stealing roasted acorns, and upon dangling him upside-down by the ankles (the commonly accepted procedure in such circumstances), a shower of other illicit acquisitions had sprinkled from his person to clatter upon the cobblestones.

Dwalin had a thing or two to say about axes and orifices. Thankfully it was in Khuzdul, so Bilbo grasped no more than the barest outline. Then Thorin had a few things to say about honor and reputation, all the while marching Nori up and down the street to return the pilfered items.

"Was that…what's his name, Oak-Shield guy?" Asked a very bemused florist, who in exchange for a thieved tulip had received payment equal to all her flowers as well the cart on which she carried them.

"…More or less, yes." Said Bilbo. "The one who was doing the lecturing. Other one is Nori. Actually quite a nice fellow once you get past the sticky fingers."

"He's just as scary as you described." The florist whispered, clutching the battered tulip to her chest.

"Oh, that? That's nothing, he's not even really angry."

"What's 'really angry'?"

"Charging a giant orc sitting on top of a snarling warg, alone, armed with nothing but a sword and a lucky log."

"Oh, wow." The florist said. Then, "Is he married?"

"N – I – didn't you just find him frightening?"

"But in a good way."

"Oh for pity's sake…"

.

"That was humiliating." Thorin said. He had just slipped out of sight into a narrow alley shaded by an ancient wisteria; its bows sagging under frothy purple blossoms. He needed a moment of quiet to smoke his pipe and cool his head. There was no telling what manner of nonsense his company would get up to without him, but he needed that bit of calm. He had fought bloody battles and undertaken punishing quests without breaking stride, but today, he needed a moment.

"Ah well." Balin said. "Who would have thought he'd settle down a start a family? I was betting ten gold he was sweet on you."

"Twenty." Said Dwalin. "And I don't often bet."

"I was referring to Nori's poor conduct." Thorin said, voice desert-dry. "But yes." A pull of smoke and long exhale. "_That _too."

"You surprised me a little." Dwalin said. "Acting so fond of his son."

"I am fond of his son." Thorin said. "How could I not be? Frodo is a bright child. And so small for being two years of age."

"Aye, Hobbits are wee creatures." Said Balin, lighting his own pipe.

"So are you satisfied now?" Thorin asked him. "I've gained _closure _as you put it; we ought to let him get on with his life."

"No." Said Dwalin. "I've listened to you pine after him at least thrice a week since–"

"It hasn't been nearly that oft –"

"– Thrice a week on average; Óin calculated, and rounded _down_." Dwalin spoke over Thorin's protest. "We all agree that you need to put this thing to rest."

"And will take more than an unexpected visit gone slightly awry to do that." Balin said. "You're going to tell him everything you've told any of us. And if he rejects you, it must be the clearest and most sound rejection that ever broke a heart. But it will let you stop wondering and move on."

"Easy said. Yet moving on has never been my strength."

"There you are." Ori said, appearing at the mouth of the alley. "We're going back to Bag End."

.

"I see you've…redecorated." Thorin said.

Bilbo found it a surprisingly tactful assessment of Bag End. Ever since his return to an all but empty post-auction dwelling, he had managed to track down and win back a few fixtures. Many others, however, were gone for good; current owners either unknown or unwilling to relinquish whatever they had nipped at a bargain. There was enough furniture to accommodate a Hobbit and a half, but an unforeseen company of thirteen resulted in many seated upon the floor.

Bilbo embarked on a disjointed explanation of this, interrupted and repeated frequently because everyone was carrying some kind of food, drink, or other such effect and were constantly shouting back and forth as to what would be done with which this or that and who ought to do it. A hock of ham, bunches of green onions, oats, strawberries, a keg of strong brown ale, blocks of butter and cheese, fresh-baked bread from the market, mulled wine, and more; all being organized and utilized simultaneously.

"Bifur, chop these potatoes."

"Gimme a hand with this broth."

"Is this the biggest skillet?"

"Keep an eye on the oven, brother."

"Where'd I put that string of garlic?"

It seemed to Bilbo as though time had reversed itself, and the night of their fateful party was flowing backwards before his eyes. All the same chaos, the same noise and commotion, except now his larder and kitchen were being stuffed to bursting instead of ransacked.

He had never realized just how empty the place had felt…

Those dwarves who could be spared a moment from the general clamor were very keen to speak with Frodo. Aside from the sheer novelty of a Hobbit child, it quickly became clear that Frodo had learned from his uncle a great number of details about all of them, enough to guess many a Dwarf's name based on nothing but appearance. If the name was not supplied at once, they had only to name a few key deeds or feats for which Bilbo might have recalled them.

"And what about me, my boy?"

"I don't know." Frodo said, his soft brow drawn in consternation.

"A hint: I tend the company's wounds, making salves, numbing creams, disinfectants and the like."

"Oh, why you're Oín of course! You're very learned and clever."

"Am I indeed!" Oín chuckled. "And what about this fellow?"

"Kili." Frodo said at once. "He's the only one who has no beard."

Everyone except Kili laughed uproariously at this.

"You're a master archer." Frodo continued, undaunted. "And skilled with a sword too. Not very good at watching ponies though."

There was more laughter. Perhaps feeling it was someone else's turn, Kili grabbed Thorin's arm and pulled him over to where Frodo sat upon a footrest bereaved its associated armchair.

"And what did Bilbo tell you about him, eh?" Kili asked.

"Not much." Said Frodo with an apologetic shrug.

There was another of those heavy silences. No one wanted to look at either Thorin or Bilbo, particularly either of them at the other. The moment was put out of its misery by a nock at the door. Bilbo, who was not expecting anyone, ran at once to answer as though awaiting his long-lost twin. It was, however, merely Fildis Groveland, with a large vase under one arm.

"Hello Mr. Bilbo." Fildis said, stepping over the threshold the instant the door was open. "I was in the neighborhood and realized I forgot to give back this vase I borrowed from you a while back."

"You were…in the area…incidentally, carrying my vase? For a completely separate reason?" Bilbo's questions went unanswered, as Fildis had already handed the vase to him and disappeared into the commotion of the house.

Bilbo didn't know quite what to think. By the eighth (predominantly female) visitor intent on returning a 'borrowed' item, he was beginning to get the idea. He briefly considered turning them away. On the other hand, it was the best way to regain furniture he had yet discovered. He decided to let things play out as they would.

By evening, Bilbo had a fully-furnished house and a party. Biffer and Bombur and Dori and Ori had to make two separate trips back to the market to feed all the unexpected arrivals.

"You really don't have to do that –" Bilbo said.

"We might as well. We are diplomats now, kind of." Said Bombur with a shrug, setting down a sack of flour in the pantry. "We throw a lot of feasts, anyway. I don't question it."

"I'm beginning to see the sense in that."

.

Outside, several tables had been placed end-to-end to create a larger table. Many candles had been lit against the slight chill of the spring evening, and a few lanterns had been hung in trees. All could agree it was a very festive atmosphere.

A little _too_ festive for certain spurned kings.

"So where are you people from?" Asked a Hobbit lass sitting on Thorin's left.

"Erebor." For once he cared not to elaborate.

"What's Erebor?" The Hobbit asked.

"Have you ever seen a map?"

"Once." She said. "Why? Are you a map-maker?"

"…Yes, I am that. It's very boring."

"I think it sounds rather fascinating." Said another Hobbit woman sitting to his right.

"Trust me, it is not." He hurriedly drained his half-full mug of ale, and then excused himself with the excuse of getting more. Everywhere at this party he ran into female Hobbits who found him _fascinating_. He told himself they were simply being friendly, that he was likely a poor judge of Hobbit mood and motive, and yet it made him distinctly uncomfortable.

Bilbo found him doing something more than lingering and less than hiding in the wine cellar.

"Oh, I – do you need something?" Bilbo said.

"No. Just…admiring your collection."

"Ah. Well, if something catches your eye, feel free." Bilbo said, a bit at a loss. "My home is your home."

"As mine is yours." Thorin answered with a slight nod of his head; pure formality. The words had a slightly bitter aftertaste. He would have liked that to be true in fact as well as figure of speech: Bilbo dwelling with the rest of them in Erebor forever after. He did not begrudge Bilbo his choice to return to the Shire, but the disappointment of it sometimes struck at him unforeseen, like a knife to the kidney. Sometimes he wondered how much of Bilbo's choice to leave had been informed by his own misdeeds. Self-centered, perhaps, but at the very least he had not helped his cause. That alone was enough to haunt him.

Bilbo retrieved a bottle without looking at it and turned to go. Then stopped, and turned around. "So how is…the whole king thing going?"

"I see you've spoken with my nephews." Said Thorin, without a pause.

"Wh – no, I just…"

Thorin simply looked at him, and the words died on Bilbo's tongue.

"I mean…" Bilbo began again, "I heard them talking – overheard them mention something about…"

Again with that look. Neither angry nor incredulous, but still so very knowing.

"Now see here," Bilbo said finally, "it doesn't matter. I'm asking because I want to know."

"My rein is going smoothly, sans dragon. Nonetheless, I intend to abdicate the throne to Fili once Erebor's repopulation is secure."

His tone invited no questions, but Bilbo pressed on.

"Why?"

"You know why." Thorin's voice was very quiet. "You more than anyone."

"I know no such thing."

"You know little enough about any such things." It might seem like an insult, but for the faint smile. "Nor should you have to."

"I know you're a good king." Bilbo said stubbornly. "I could not help knowing that."

"If you trust me as a king, trust me to do what's right in this matter. If you do not, then just as well I step down."

"That's not fair." Bilbo said.

"Few things are. You should get back to your party."

"It's hardly my party, and why are you not in it?"

"I find your people's friendliness…a bit –"

"It's not friendliness; they fancy you. You've all got a huge following."

"I…didn't want to presume – is someone watching my nephews?" He stomped back up the short flight of stairs without waiting for a reply, brushing past a bemused Ori at the top.

"Are you saying you wouldn't want a Dwobbit grandnephew in line for the throne?" Bilbo called after him. "I'm offended!"

.

"They're discussing Dwobit heirs to the throne." Ori exclaimed, racing up to Nori, Fili and Bofur, who were smoking their pipes under a flowering apple tree.

"What is a – oh. No. What?" Said Bofur.

"That's not an option for a number of reasons." Fili said.

"Are we sure it's not?" Said Ori.

"What do you mean, 'are we sure'?" Said Nori. "Did father never tell _you_ how babies are made?"

"Yes, but –"

"I assume she said nothing of _Hobbit_ babies," Bofur said, catching on to Ori's point. "Nor how they mark the difference twixt woman and man, mother and father."

They all mused on that for a moment.

"So…as in…Bilbo might be Frodo's _mother?" _Said an incredulous Nori.

"I really doubt –" Began Fili.

Ori cut him off. "Can we know for a fact?"

"For that matter," said Bofur, "how do we know two parents are even involved?"

"Do you think…Thorin knows how Hobbits…do that?" Ori said, very quietly.

"I think he would've mentioned it." Bofur said with a slight frown.

"Would've mentioned it thrice a bloody week." Nori muttered.

"Should we…find out?" Suggested Bofur after a moment. "As a duty to our king, that is."

"Would be an act of loyalty." Said Fili with a smirk. "As well as having anthropological significance."

"Aye, you know how I love anthropology." Said Nori.

As if summoned by his name, Thorin approached their group. They all fell into an unmistakably guilty silence when they saw him.

"I need hardly remind you to conduct yourself with honor." Thorin said, looking hard at Fili as though he had heard every word of the former conversation.

"And don't impregnate any Hobbits." Put in Bofur.

"Yes, Bofur." Thorin sighed.

"And are you conducting yourself with honor?" Fili asked Thorin.

"Of course." Thorin said, a bit stiffly.

"Well stop it." Fili said. "That's the whole point of this trip."

"And none of your concern." Thorin said, voice dark with warning.

"Why?" A hard edge crept into Fili's voice as well. "Are we not equals now, one king to another?"

"You will always be my nephew."

"And _you _will always be the one who supported my parents' marriage when Thror was against it." Fili said. "Mother mentions it often. That in addition to being my uncle, I owe my birth in part to you."

"So she wants revenge?" Thorin said, with the hint of a smile.

"More or less." Said Fili, returning the smile more fully. "You can't deny these things are a family affair."

"This is different."

"How?"

"In your parent's case, both parties were of the same mind, and neither already had a child."

"That doesn't necessarily mean –"

"Yes, it does." Thorin turned and walked away, both to end the conversation and to deliver further admonition to Kili.

"I think it's time to take drastic action." Bofur said as Thorin vanished into the crowd.

"I could not agree more." Said Fili. "Go find Dwalin."


End file.
